I will be your lighthouse
The story is there, curled on his tongue and waiting to be kindled, but the sight of her clutching the little Firecracker to her chest makes something in him go painfully, wonderfully still. Iskra watches her turn it over in her hands, watches the surprise soften into something warmer, brighter, and far more dangerous to his composure than any story. The thanks, whispered low and meant only for him, lands somewhere deep enough that his smile comes slower than usual. There are few greater joys than a crafter watching their creation be cherished, or seeing the woman you love partake in such honest joy.
"Yeah?" he asks, quieter than intended, the warmth in his eyes answering long before his mouth manages anything useful. "Good. I wanted it to be." Perfect. A thumb brushes absently against the edge of the table, as if his hands need something to do now that they are empty. The laugh that follows at her remark about being spoiled is softer, bashful at the edges, before he clears his throat and lets the new flame between them swell. The little ship of fire rocks, its sails flickering softly in the low light as he watches her for a beat longer than necessary—just long enough to drum up the story once more.
"Piloted by the dead," he repeats, and nudges the fire with a thought. The tiny vessel drifts a little farther out, a suggestion of waves forming beneath it. Nothing elaborate, just enough to give it motion. "It only shows up in someone’s path when it’s acquiring new crew. To most, it appears nothing more than ordinary when it's sighted. Although it's always strangely empty, given its size. Always in tip top shape though." The ship tilts faintly, as if caught by a passing current.
"People being people…they board it." A soft huff of breath, knowing well the risk of curiosity and good intentions. "Some become concerned, think there's something wrong. They get on board thinking they can help, searching for survivors...or supplies worth taking." The fire shifts, a second ship appearing, and little embers jumping from one to the other. "What they find is a ship that looks freshly vacated. Cigars still burning in ashtrays. Food still hot on the stove. Cups left half full." His voice lowers and he taps the edge of the table lightly with his finger, punctuating the detail.
"Yet, there’s no one to be found." A small pause. "Not until they try to leave." The ship gives a subtle, unnatural lurch of flame. "That’s when people start noticing things. Movement, mostly. Just quick—" he gestures vaguely, "—something passing by at the edge of your vision." The fire flickers, and for a second, a shape slips along the side of the ship. It's barely there, gone as quickly as it came. "Enough to make them think they missed someone." His eyes lift to hers again, knowing exactly how that would go. He'd experienced those very feelings plenty of nights on his own.
"So of course, people follow it. Once they do, doors start closing behind them. Not all at once. Just… one at a time. Slow enough they don’t panic right away." He leans in a little, voice dipping lower again. "By the time they realize they can’t find your way back, the ship’s already… shifted." The flame tightens subtly, the little ship rocking harder now, caught in a tide that isn’t visible. "That’s when the crew finally shows up."
The flaming ship expands out slowly, and instead of just the hull on the sea, Iskra builds a room now, fire flicking at the edges he shapes it into as various figures flit around the deck. "Not all at once. Not clearly. Just…" he exhales softly through his nose, searching for the word, "…echoes." Another flicker—this time a figure stands at the stern for half a second before dissolving back into the fire. "They don’t talk. Don’t really see the strangers aboard their ship. They just… keep doing whatever they were doing before they got stuck there. Sailing. Working. Dancing."
The ship shrinks and becomes the exterior once more, simplified again as it rocks faintly between them. "And by then…" he adds, glancing up at her with a crooked, almost apologetic half-smile, "they’re already part of it."
"Yeah?" he asks, quieter than intended, the warmth in his eyes answering long before his mouth manages anything useful. "Good. I wanted it to be." Perfect. A thumb brushes absently against the edge of the table, as if his hands need something to do now that they are empty. The laugh that follows at her remark about being spoiled is softer, bashful at the edges, before he clears his throat and lets the new flame between them swell. The little ship of fire rocks, its sails flickering softly in the low light as he watches her for a beat longer than necessary—just long enough to drum up the story once more.
"Piloted by the dead," he repeats, and nudges the fire with a thought. The tiny vessel drifts a little farther out, a suggestion of waves forming beneath it. Nothing elaborate, just enough to give it motion. "It only shows up in someone’s path when it’s acquiring new crew. To most, it appears nothing more than ordinary when it's sighted. Although it's always strangely empty, given its size. Always in tip top shape though." The ship tilts faintly, as if caught by a passing current.
"People being people…they board it." A soft huff of breath, knowing well the risk of curiosity and good intentions. "Some become concerned, think there's something wrong. They get on board thinking they can help, searching for survivors...or supplies worth taking." The fire shifts, a second ship appearing, and little embers jumping from one to the other. "What they find is a ship that looks freshly vacated. Cigars still burning in ashtrays. Food still hot on the stove. Cups left half full." His voice lowers and he taps the edge of the table lightly with his finger, punctuating the detail.
"Yet, there’s no one to be found." A small pause. "Not until they try to leave." The ship gives a subtle, unnatural lurch of flame. "That’s when people start noticing things. Movement, mostly. Just quick—" he gestures vaguely, "—something passing by at the edge of your vision." The fire flickers, and for a second, a shape slips along the side of the ship. It's barely there, gone as quickly as it came. "Enough to make them think they missed someone." His eyes lift to hers again, knowing exactly how that would go. He'd experienced those very feelings plenty of nights on his own.
"So of course, people follow it. Once they do, doors start closing behind them. Not all at once. Just… one at a time. Slow enough they don’t panic right away." He leans in a little, voice dipping lower again. "By the time they realize they can’t find your way back, the ship’s already… shifted." The flame tightens subtly, the little ship rocking harder now, caught in a tide that isn’t visible. "That’s when the crew finally shows up."
The flaming ship expands out slowly, and instead of just the hull on the sea, Iskra builds a room now, fire flicking at the edges he shapes it into as various figures flit around the deck. "Not all at once. Not clearly. Just…" he exhales softly through his nose, searching for the word, "…echoes." Another flicker—this time a figure stands at the stern for half a second before dissolving back into the fire. "They don’t talk. Don’t really see the strangers aboard their ship. They just… keep doing whatever they were doing before they got stuck there. Sailing. Working. Dancing."
The ship shrinks and becomes the exterior once more, simplified again as it rocks faintly between them. "And by then…" he adds, glancing up at her with a crooked, almost apologetic half-smile, "they’re already part of it."
Iskra
